


The Apprentice and the Rabbit Chaser

by EVBriar



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EVBriar/pseuds/EVBriar
Summary: . : . Hadvar/Ralof M/M Romance & Adventure . : .They knew each other once.Reallyknew. The type of connection a man would only share with his loveliest of lovers.And that's just what they were.They met in Riverwood in their younger years – just sixteen, the both of them. Hadvar was so eager to learn whatever his uncle could teach him, although it turned out to be very little, considering he spent all his time with that pretty blond boy with those blue eyes.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am reposting this (again!) on my 'official' writing account. Follow me here for more!

 

* * *

**PROLOGUE: The Apprentice**

* * *

The closer they got to the village, the more anxious Hadvar had become. For days they had been on the road – from Solitude they stopped at Rorikstead, then all the way south to Falkreath, northward to Helgen and now they were only a mile from Riverwood. Sitting beside the merchant his parents had hired, Hadvar was trembling with nerves and tiredness. There was little sleep to be found in inn beds; his mind was abuzz with unease. To be lost in the crowds of Solitude was one thing – but to be one of few in a small village? That was another entirely.

Hadvar had only vaguely recognized the outcropping of rocks or trunks of old trees along the road. He'd been to Riverwood before, but as a mere boy of twelve or so. He was sixteen now: tall, strong as he'd ever been, and ready to learn whatever it was he would do with his life. Blacksmithing, Hadvar decided. Who better than his uncle to teach him?

He could fondly remember visiting here when he was six and being fascinated with this life beyond his own. He'd visit six years later for Alvor and Sigrid's wedding, marveling all the more at how far his uncle had progressed in skill.

As if on cue, the distant hammering from the forge stopped when the village came into view. The road before them was bare and empty, save for his uncle (familiar only by his apron) descending the steps of his forge to meet them just a horse-length past the entrance.

"Hadvar!" he exclaimed. "Is that you?"

His smile was wide, his nerves only slightly settling. "Aye," he answered, hopping down from the carriage to embrace his uncle. He was taller and stronger than Hadvar, and smelled of a hot musk from the forge. Just as he remembered him. Hadvar was hugged so tightly it almost hurt but he returned the affection.

"Taller than your father by now, aren't you?"

"Only just."

"Sigrid!" Uncle called toward the door of their home after parting from the hug. A moment later his aunt emerged, young and as beautiful as she was on their wedding day just four years prior, wiping dainty but well-worked hands on a rag.

"Hullo, Hadvar," she greeted softly in her sing-song voice.

He nodded toward her. "Hello, Aunt Sigrid."

"Let's get you settled in, shall we? How long were you on the road?"

"Three days." He and his uncle began to pull his few bags of belongings from the back of the carriage while the merchant silently wandered into the Trader just across the road. Good, Hadvar thought, because the man was not much for conversation. "I haven't slept much."

"I won't work you hard until you have a night's sleep," assured Uncle, leading him toward the home with full hands.

"How are your parents, Hadvar?" Sigrid sweetly asked.

"Well, last I left them." He followed Uncle into the basement. It was noticeably colder down here, away from the warmth of the fire above. They'd set up a bed in the corner of the dark stone room, with a thick layer of blankets for consolation. The few knapsacks of clothes and other things (namely, a pendant his father had carved for him when he was a boy, and a patch of quilt his sentimental-and-weepy mother had cut from his childhood blanket only a few days prior) were placed atop it to be unpacked later.

"I'm sure you'll want to get a run of the village. I doubt you remember it much, aye?"

"I'm sure he'll want to rest," corrected Sigrid from the top of the stairs as the two walked back up them.

"Actually," Hadvar interjected, smiling a little through his tired delirium, "I'd like to watch you work, Uncle, if you've got much of the day left?"

"I do," he said happily. "Not here for a blink and he wants to work! How ever did my brother raise you?"

Although he smiled, Hadvar's heart tightened at the mention of his father. 'What a man,' he thought, 'to already be homesick?' He brushed the thoughts off as a simple shock – after all, what man wouldn't miss his family after only three days away? But childhood was long gone and there was no use longing for it now.

Stained eyes squinted to the light outside. He'd forgotten how bright it was, and almost regretted not falling into that bed. Through the open door of the Trader just several feet away, the merchant was trying to sell a gold-painted earring 'belonging to the Skald-King himself', Hadvar had been told (and he supposed so was the trader), but both of them could see the orange specks of copper where the gold had chipped away. Hadvar hadn't said anything, but Riverwood's trader had no patience for gimmicks and lies. Gnawing his lip to keep a grin away, he turned to the right and surveyed his uncle's forge. Attention was drawn to the display pieces on the back table.

"This is great work, Uncle."

"Aye," Alvor acknowledged. Hadvar purposefully pricked his finger on a steel dagger to see how sharp it was. Very. He sucked the blood from his fingertip and tasted metal. "I doubt you remember the mill woman," his uncle started a story.

"Not well, no." He leaned over the forge railing to watch the log being sawed, the mill operated by a feminine silhouette.

"Ah. She took ill two winters past, rest her spirit. Her niece took up the place. Maybe you'll find time to make friends with her. Between your hard work, that is." There was some solace in the knowledge that there was someone near enough to his own age to befriend. "She's got a brother, too."

Distant, hearty laughter echoed beyond the mill. Hadvar ignored it.

"Perhaps," Hadvar muttered, yawning so loudly it earned a laugh from Alvor. "Sorry. You have my attention." The teenager turned around and leaned back against the display table, eyes on his uncle's forming iron sword. He took glances at Hearthfire's Prevail - the horse who'd taken him from the grand city of Solitude to this cozy village. He'd give her a proper goodbye when the merchant left in the morning. Hearthfire was still hooked up to the carriage and grazing on grass that grew along the Trader porch. She was a beautiful mare, and was the merchant's payment by Hadvar's parents for safe passage. That reminded him - "Oh," he huffed, interrupting his uncle's explanation of working the metal, "I've got to write to my parents."

"Mother worried sick, is she?"

Hadvar laughed. She was, but - "It was father who told me to write straight away." Alvor smiled in amusement but soon it softened - Hadvar supposed at his brother's love for his only child. Again his heart tightened, and he cleared the homesickness from his throat.

"You ought to get to it, then. Don't tell Sigrid, or she'll crane over your shoulder until you've written a book about your well-being."

They parted with a laugh and Hadvar walked with weary legs back into the house. He smiled at his sewing aunt, took a candle from the fireplace mantle, and retreated to the basement with the light. Hadvar set it on the table beside his bed and took to one of the knapsacks to dig for a quill, ink, and paper. He held his father's pendant in his left hand as he wrote with his right.

 

_Dear mother and father,_

_I've arrived in Riverwood unharmed. The ride took three days (but only because we slept at inns, as you requested). Alvor and Sigrid are well and just as I remember them. Seems Zenithar has been kind to Uncle - the house seems well stocked with food and furs (so don't worry, ma). Uncle will be a grand teacher. I can't wait to learn from him._

_I miss you both. I'll write when I can. Please let me know how you are doing._

_Your son, Hadvar_

 

After rolling up the parchment, tying it with a string, bringing it upstairs and asking Sigrid to send it with a messenger (and promising he'd pay back the coins it'd cost), Hadvar collapsed into bed. He could only muster up the energy to sit up and blow out the candle. He found it easy to sleep in the cold - and sleep he did, all afternoon and then the rest of the night, dreams of that laughter echoing in the back of his mind.

* * *

**PROLOGUE: The Rabbit-Chaser**

* * *

If one were to ask Ralof what he did for the village, he would say nothing.

He chopped trees for his sister, operated the mill for the village, distributed wood to families. He repaired the roofs when it stormed and rounded up the livestock when they fled. He fought wolves or bandits whenever the need arose. He gathered ingredients when someone was sick and dug graves when they died. He took messages to Whiterun or Helgen or anywhere else close when he was asked. He even filled cups at the inn when the shy maiden was unavailable, or cursed patrons for her when their hands wandered to her backside. By all accounts he was the village errand boy.

And for that reason, Ralof would say he did nothing around here.

'Nothing,' he thought, was a better answer than 'a little of this and a little of that.'

For now, Ralof had no task at hand. These moments were rare. He could do whatever he wanted - as long as he was prepared to be interrupted at any given moment. Right now, he decided, he'd most like to swim.

The current was mild today, the water cool enough to get used to. Adrenaline made his arms shake as he pulled off his tunic and pushed down his leggings, nearly naked save for the last bit of fabric shielding his most sensitive parts from the bare wind. With a shiver of laughter in his chest, he stepped down the bank and waded into the river. It was cold and his arms were half-crossed as if it'd keep him any warmer. With a surge of bravery he brought his feet off the muddy ground and let himself drop down, head submerged. He came up with his hands smoothing out long and clinging blond hair. Slowly, he warmed.

Resting on his back and letting the current carry him a ways, blue eyes looked up to the sky. Cloudy but bright. Spring was at its peak and it had not rained since fall - a bad sign, he knew, but nothing that was unappreciated. Rain soaked wood. Wet wood was hard to deal with. Ralof did not like rain. Let it all stay away, he thought! Though, that was not to say the natural bath it offered was not enjoyed, or the safe drinking water was not used up in a day. Still, he knew, they did fine without rain. Crops could be watered from the river - even if the river was lower than usual. Curse the rain, anyway - no matter its uses.

He was roused from his leisurely float by the sight of rough fur in the corner of his eye. There at the bank sat Old Lady (his affectionate nickname for The Grey Lady, the Trader's dog), watching him curiously. "Hello, love," he greeted sweetly, swimming closer to offer her his outstretched hand. Rising on her hind legs, she smelled him cautiously. "What, you don't like water?" he teased - for he knew she did, because he'd swam with her many times. Taking his hand back, he pushed it forward halfway under the river, sending a splash Old Lady's way. She retreated and sneezed, eyed him, then (without warning) jumped front-paws-first into the water beside him.

Ralof sounded a laugh that echoed into the mountains beyond. The Jarl of Whiterun could've heard it.

She came up sneezing to get the water out of her nose, moving her paws to come to him. "That's what you deserve!" he teased, arms around her underneath the surface of the water to let her rest her arms over his shoulders. "You need a bath more than I do." Rough hands came to try to work the dirt out of the fur on her head, the water around him turning a faint and soft brown. "How did you get this?" Ralof softly asked as if the dog could answer him, fingers holding her ear so concerned eyes could look at the scabbed gash on the top of it. He frowned. The village trader was a vile woman - she hated living here, caring for her widower brother and his many children, and spoke often of leaving this place behind (sometimes going into great detail about how she'd set fire to her own shop).

He'd treat the old dog's wound, like he always did, and dream of revenge that would only make her take anger out on the poor pup if made reality. Gerdur had too much honor to lie to the Trader about the dog, so she'd never let him keep her - even if it meant her safety.

"I'll steal you one day," he promised, in a whisper like someone might hear him. "We'll run away, you and me. See all of Skyrim. I'll feed you the choicest cuts from hunts and spoil you rotten."

Ralof did not yet know how true those words would be, meant not for the Trader dog but for someone else entirely.

"Ralof!" sounded his sister, and the teenager grunted and pushed the dog off of his shoulders, a hand at her back to help her swim to shore as he did the same.

As always, he was given barely any time at all before he was needed once more. "What?" he shouted back, peering at her over the blades of grass, keeping his legs kicking leisurely in the river.

"The Gods-damned rabbit is out again."

"Why'd you leave the door open?" the brother accused, crawling from the river and shaking each limb free of water - similar to how Old Lady did beside him, only he didn't have the ability for a full-body shake. Lucky pup.

"He bounded for the door when I had my hands full of wood! You ought to leave him out there. He obviously doesn't want to be in our home."

"Sure, he does. He wouldn't survive a day. He forgets the hand that fed him when he could fit barely in its palm." Ralof remembered those times fondly, when the rabbit was fluffy and cute, only to grow large and rebellious. Perhaps much like Ralof himself. Though, was he ever cute?

"Only a matter of time before Father returns and catches sight of the thing. He'll slaughter it and eat it all himself."

Ralof's core surged with anger. He knew his sister meant that as a friendly warning, but he hated those words all the same - just as he hated his father. "Let's hope he never returns, then, aye? Let him bother his other families and maybe die on the road back to us."

"Ralof!" Gerdur scolded. She still had love for the man, remembering his gentle days when she was but a tiny girl, but Ralof had never known the loving father Gerdur had spoken of once or twice. He had only known the sellsword who left them to fend for themselves while away for months, only to return and consume all they'd worked for since he'd been gone.

No. Ralof had no love for that man. Let him die on the road.

Ignoring her angry stare, he dressed quickly, sheathing his dagger and picking up his shield. He carried it everywhere, these days. He brushed past her to walk along the road back to their home - although he was sure the rabbit was a mile away by now. He could hear Old Lady trailing behind him - until they passed the Trader and the wicked woman came out, yelling at her dog about her running off and now being wet. Ralof was angry now, and had much to say.

"What happened to her ear?" he asked the woman, who went from staring hatefully at the guilty-and-cowering dog to looking at Ralof with a softened expression.

"Damn fleas," she gave an immediate excuse. "Must've cut it open scratching at them."

"Aye," Ralof said, staring intently at her, watching the dog scamper inside safely (for now). "I hope, for your sake, that's all it is." They stared at each other for a moment, as if sizing the other up, before the Trader retreated inside and closed the door. To himself, Ralof whispered: "I hope you do set your shop on fire, with yourself inside it." He glanced back at the building and finally noticed the carriage on the road by the smith's. He stopped and stared from a distance.

The horse was giant and beautiful, its pelt a tannish auburn and its mane sandy and braided. Must be the smith's nephew finally arrived. Ralof stared at the empty carriage for a moment longer before walking again toward his home.

His grand mood had been sullied by mischievous animals and father-loving-sisters and that wicked Trader woman.

"Damn rabbit," he called as if the little troublemaker might understand. "After all I do to care for you, Erik?"


	2. Yellow Fields and Bright Blue Skies

One would not think that a sixteen-year-old's back could ache so fiercely, but Hadvar knew that to be true. He felt eighty years older, having craned over the grindstone and then the workbench and then the grindstone again. Just when he thought one was worse than the other, hours passed and he decided they were both painful for too long.

He'd get used to it, Uncle told him. I'll get used to it, Hadvar told himself.

It might have been better if he'd been able to craft something of his own, but Alvor swore it off. There was no use in crafting something new straight away, Uncle said – he had to learn a hundred other things first (most of them by merely watching his uncle while he peddled or pounded away at the same time) but he had the patience of a boy and found himself stewing in frustration. For five days Hadvar had tempered armor and sharpened weapons, his neck aching from the awkward angles at which he had to keep a close eye on his uncle's work. For five days straight Hadvar had woken up, gone to the forge, spent the day getting covered in ash, and retreated to bed where even nine hours of sleep didn't seem like enough. Despite Sigrid's protests of his filth Hadvar found no time to clean himself. And so he worked, smelling like a man and hot coals and fresh leather.

Hadvar was only a new apprentice, and had given himself a few cuts from sharpened blades and bruises from slipped hammers. It was nothing one could chalk up to clumsiness; Hadvar refused that title, although couldn't help but wear it awkwardly once a day when he'd make a mistake and let out a breath of pain. All simply 'apprentice mistakes', Uncle would say. You've learned more in these past days than you ever knew before, Uncle would say. All folk make mistakes when they learn something, Alvor would say – even the gods themselves! Hadvar did not believe that – the gods were gods, and Hadvar was Hadvar.

It was on the dawn of the sixth day that he finally found a break in his work – or, rather, he took one without warning. He had been losing himself in thought (mostly ones of boredom) while staring down at the gleam of steel at the grindstone when motion at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He was used to seeing figures go back and forth to the mill, but this one was distant and almost stationary. Hadvar looked up to see a man carefully treading the grass at the foot of the mountain at the edge of the village. He seemed to be looking for something. What roused Hadvar more was the shield at the man's back – crude, carved, and wooden, but a shield nonetheless. Eyes squinted against bright sunlight to get a better look.

He stopped peddling the grindstone and hopped off the porch, bounding around over the bridge as his uncle asked him, "Boy, where are you off to?" Hadvar never answered.

As the apprentice approached, the man made a quick grab for something in the grass and sounded a triumphant 'ah-ha!'. When he turned around, Hadvar saw that he was of an age to himself – though slightly taller and stronger, it seemed. Certainly he was more handsome. He held a brown rabbit in his arms tightly but no mind was paid to it.

"Did you make that shield?" Hadvar asked. Smith blood ran in his veins, after all (although distantly).

Blue eyes looked him over in a way that made him uncomfortable. The stranger answered, "Aye," while still smiling that victorious smile.

"You know how to smith?"

"Not at all. I can only work wood." His voice had a faint gravel to it, like he'd been raised in the dirt.

"Can I see it?"

"Look all you want." Instead of taking it off, the blond stranger merely walked away from Hadvar – letting him follow behind to see the front of it. It had been polished some time ago but now was marked with use – axes and sword dashes here, bite marks there. It served its purpose no matter its craft.

When Hadvar was finished ogling, he asked the boy, "Are you going to eat that rabbit?"

The scoff that came from him sounded the entire village. "No!" he exclaimed in offense, though when he turned back to Hadvar he was still wearing that smile. "He's my sister's pet. Likes to get out and run around. Find girlfriends to make little bastards with. I always have to catch the damn thing." He must have been Gerdur's brother. This village was small – were there many boys who had sisters and knew much about wood around here? The smile was contagious and Hadvar soon huffed his own away so he could answer the stranger's question, "You're the smith's nephew?"

"I am."

"Saw your carriage a few days ago. Where did you live?"

"Solitude."

"How was the travel?"

They were walking along the small bridge at a snail's pace now, and blue eyes locked onto an ashed face intently. He seemed to desperately want to know.

"I didn't get to see much," he admittedly regretfully. "The man who brought me here was in a hurry." As they neared closer, Hadvar saw Alvor's stern eyes looking at them and he cleared his throat. Without looking, the boy seemed to notice him too.

"You ought to tell me about it sometime." He turned around again and made far greater pace along the road. He said nothing more, and did not look back at Hadvar even as Hadvar stared on.

"You abandoned your station, boy," Uncle scolded, once the other boy had rounded the corner out of sight and Hadvar was back at the grindstone.

"Sorry, Uncle."

The blacksmith sighed a forgiving sigh. "No matter. I suppose you ought to make friends. Keep it on your own time, though, or I'll have you sharpening for weeks." The words were stern but Hadvar knew he didn't mean them.

Still, he promised, "I will, Uncle," and brought his attention back to the steel sword at hand, though it was not all there: in every gleam of the metal he saw those piercing blue eyes. Mere moments passed before he continued, overtaken by a sudden idea, "Uncle," he piped, "whenever you find me ready, I know what I'd first like to make." Alvor looked at him and Hadvar glanced his way, eyes otherwise on the sword. "A shield," he said. "For the mill woman's brother."

"Ralof?" he questioned.

Hadvar did not know whether that was right, but he nodded anyway. "He uses wood, now. It's been well-battled."

"He's a fine boy, but he couldn't afford the coin," Uncle pointed out after a pause of thought.

"I would pay it off," assured the apprentice. "But I'd have him pay it to me through barter, maybe."

"Well, when you're ready. If that's what you want," Uncle finally approved.

He was abuzz with thoughts of it the rest of the time he worked. It'd have to be iron, he imagined. He'd work the metal hard to fold the way he wanted it to – but that was easier said than done. Thoughts turned to worry: what if his first shield was, by all accounts, terrible? Uncle would be a guide, Hadvar assured himself. Surely he would not let an atrocity leave his forge.

Hours passed and Hadvar worked with a newfound ferocity, grinding blades to slice like a frozen wind and tempering armor for proper fits. He was yawning by the time the sun had started to set and the day was over, and was thankful for it – muscles aching for his bed. Yet, as Hadvar entered the home, he was stopped immediately by his aunt.

"Hadvar," Sigrid said over her newest book, tone like he'd done something wrong.

"Bathe?" he guessed. He did desperately need to, and she'd been bothering him for three days straight.

"Yes. Right now."

He looked around. "Is there a bucket-"

"No – go to the river. You'd turn a bucket black before you finished your hands."

Uncle chuckled from his spot near the fire, wiping his own arms after shedding the smith's apron. "You'd better listen to her. I swear she was raised by an angry serpent."

Hadvar left them to gently argue, a grin on his face, after taking fresh clothes to head to the river. It was calm and almost as still as the air. Eyes had been fully on the water until he got closer and noticed someone at the bank of it. Night was falling but he could still see well enough several feet away. Blond hair.

"Hello," he greeted, clearing his throat awkwardly at the bank. He'd have to undress in front of him.

"Hello, smith," he replied, and Hadvar looked at him. He was lying leisurely on the grass, using a rough-looking dog as a pillow. The pet regarded him curiously and cautiously, sniffing the air in his direction. "This is Old Lady."

"Hello, Old Lady," Hadvar greeted, offering her his hand to smell and gently petting her head when she felt safe enough. "Is she yours?"

"In heart," Ralof-the-mill-woman's-brother replied softly. Hadvar did not know what that meant, and he did not ask. Blue eyes darted down to the clothes in his hand and the smith looked down at them, too. "Bathing, eh? Current is good for it now. Thought I might swim tonight but I'm feeling too lazy."

Hadvar swallowed nervously. There was no more waiting to be done, so he shed his clothes shyly. First his apron, then he pulled his tunic over his head, and finally pushed the trousers off his legs. They were all heavy with soot. One wouldn't realize how dirty a forge could make you, even at a foot away. He was left only with his thin undergarment. Without looking at the other boy, Hadvar slowly stepped into the water. It made the faintest ripples around his body and soon was colored with a dim grey. Shivering, he scrubbed his arms with either hand, then his neck with both – and when he would try to look at Ralof without raising suspicion, those blue eyes were staring at him, the faintest grin on that face.

Goosebumps were heavy on his flesh but not only from the cold. Finally Hadvar submerged completely, working fingers through his hair that was thick with ash. It was smoothed back with cleaner hands when he surfaced, glancing again at Ralof who was still staring. Satisfied with his fresh skin and all too shy about it, Hadvar came back to crawl onto the bank and sit in the grass a foot away from the other boy. Those clean clothes would get soaked if he put them on now, so he sat shivering and shy, knees to his chest.

"Cold?" Ralof asked.

"Very." His lower jaw trembled.

"Here," he offered something, and it turned out to be the dog behind his head. He lifted her up and pushed her into Hadvar's lap, who nervously put his arms around her, hand petting her chest and the other her back. "She's warm."

Hesitantly he thanked him, trying to soothe the dog who shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm Ralof, by the way." There was a smile in his voice but he only glanced at it, painfully aware that those eyes were trailing his back. Blond hair was spread out like reeds over the bare grass now.

"I know."

"Well, who are you?"

"Oh," he breathed a laugh. "Hadvar."

"I knew that, too. Just wanted to hear you say it." Hadvar had nothing to say so he smiled and turn his head so Ralof could see it. He looked at him for a moment longer than he had before, and Ralof looked back. The scars on his face were far more noticeable, somehow, in the moons' light. "What was the trip like?" Ralof urged.

Eyes went back to the water and a shrug was given. It seemed like a dream now. "My parents hired a traveling merchant to bring me here. Started in Solitude, as you know, then went to Rorikstead, Falkreath, Helgen. He'd trade there, we'd sleep at inns, then head out at dawn."

"No trouble on the roads?"

"Howling wolves here and there but nothing memorable." Hadvar smiled as the dog began to lick his hand, thankful for the constant attention he was giving. "Merchant wasn't much for talking."

"Was it beautiful?"

Hadvar looked at him. Those eyes were terribly curious. "Yes," he answered. "When the land is smooth you can see for miles all around. And there's colors I've never seen all together in the woods – flowers vibrant for spring."

"Aye. Skyrim is a treasure. I would like to see all of her, someday."

"Me, too." He smiled at the river. He had nothing left to say, so he told him, "I'm making you a shield," because it was not meant to be a surprise.

Yet it still was – Ralof sat up and searched Hadvar's face, his own wearing an expression of concern. "Why?" he said, cautiously.

"I thought you might like a new one. A stronger one. Yours has seen much. I wouldn't want it to break on you the next time you use it." He tried to explain as sweetly as he could, worried Ralof was offended.

"All of my coin-," Ralof started, then stopped, looked down at Hadvar's hands petting the dog, and said instead, "I couldn't give you coin."

Hadvar knew nothing about this boy but dismay was not a face he liked to see on him. It spread like wildfire to the smith. He assured, "You wouldn't have to. I'll work you for it."

Those straight lips turned into a grin and Hadvar soon shared it. "Okay," Ralof agreed, lying back down in the grass again. "Work me however you'd like, for one of your fancy shields."

"It won't be very good. It'll be my first piece."

"Sure, it will," Ralof assured, "because it'll be your first piece."

Hadvar hid his smile by pressing a kiss to Old Lady's cheek. She'd warmed up greatly to him (and warmed him up in the process) and pawed for more attention. In the reflection of the river he soon noticed the faintest grey of old stone. Brown eyes looked up at Bleak Falls Barrow – almost invisible in the night sky, but not invisible enough for Hadvar's liking.

The two said nothing for the longest while, until Ralof said: "I like your freckles."

"What?" He finally tore his gaze away from that dreadful place.

"Your freckles," he said. "They dot your back like stars. I like them."

Hadvar blushed a deep red. "Thanks," he whispered, barely audible.

Once more they simply sat together and neither boy said anything. Silence was between them like a cover, until finally Ralof yawned. "I better bring Old Lady home. Gerdur will wonder where I've been off to. I'll tell her it's your fault."

It was a tease, Hadvar knew, and he smiled for it. "I suppose it is." He turned his head to watch the blond boy leave. "Goodnight," he called softly after him.

"Sweet dreams," replied Ralof, the dog peeling from his lap to follow her master, Hadvar staring after them.

And Hadvar did have sweet dreams that night, a welcome change from nightmares of draugr – dreaming of that laughter again, and companion dogs, and warrior boys who needed to break in new shields. He dreamed of open plains and colorful forests, but none of them felt empty – filled instead with yellow fields and bright blue skies.


End file.
